


Sutton Picklestein - Pregame Ritual: Reassembling

by hatfights



Series: Pregame Rituals [3]
Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Yellowstone Magic (Blaseball Team)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:33:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26593747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hatfights/pseuds/hatfights
Summary: Every blaseball player has a pregame ritual. This is the Yellowstone Magic's mysterious being and pretty good third blaseman Sutton Picklestein's.
Series: Pregame Rituals [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1934548
Kudos: 3





	Sutton Picklestein - Pregame Ritual: Reassembling

Deep in the forests of Yellowstone National Park, the white shine of a full moon reflected in the eye of a box turtle as it crawled through the underbrush. Suddenly, without any warning or fanfare, the reflected moonlight split into two separate, identical points; one remained reflected in the turtle’s eye, the other slowly drifted away, floating through the trees like a burning ember towards an unknown destination.

Dozens of miles away, the same thing was happening to a meadow full of fireflies, their collective blinking phosphorescence splitting from itself and weaving away towards somewhere far away.

All over the park, this phenomenon was repeating itself. The light from dozens of campfires and lanterns and the headlights on the front of park jeeps doubled and escaped. A shower of reflected starlight jumped off the surface of a pond to join with the blinking red lights from the trail cameras set up around Old Faithful and the hot springs, and no one noticed as they zoomed off into the night.

All of these points of light were drawn to a centralized spot near the home dugout of the Yellowstone Magic, where they joined together with the already-coalesced brightness from the stadium lights and Eizabeth’s laptop and the dull gleam from the blaseball bats hung on the dugout’s back wall.

Finally all gathered into one spot, the shifting mass of light slowly, steadily began to resolve itself into a humanoid figure. A shoulder stretched, a leg reached toward the ground, a head resolved itself small enough to fit into a medium sized ball cap. The shape, finally back in the familiar form of the Magic’s third blaseman and smelling vaguely of brine, pulled the #77 jersey over its head and double knotted its cleats. As the play clock counted down to zero and the microphone feedback filled the stadium, Sutton Picklestein gave a small wave to the crowd as it trotted onto the field for another game.


End file.
